


The Soldier

by Queen_Valkyrie



Series: Fake AH Origins [3]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: F/M, Fake AH Crew, Immortal Fake AH Crew, fem!Jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5449019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queen_Valkyrie/pseuds/Queen_Valkyrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nowadays, he's a criminal. An unstoppable warrior. A demolitions expert with a temper as quick, hot, and deadly as his bombs.<br/>But a long time ago, he was just a kid, fighting for his life and his country.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Soldier

1918.

President Wilson finally announced that the United States of America would be joining World War 1, and the US’s allies collectively breathed a sigh of relief.

24-year-old Michael Jones did what every young white American man was expected to do. He joined the military. Specifically, he joined the Navy, and the officers whisked he and his fellow recruits through boot camp in a few short weeks.

After his training, he was sent to Britain and put to work as a gunman on the _HMS Britannia_. He served on the _Britannia_ for seven months.

During November of that year, he spent a large majority of his time (at least his time not stationed at his artillery position) below deck in the sonar room with his bunkmate James. It was November 9th when, while he and James were joking together with a Brit named Charles when, all of a sudden, there was a panicked shout from their commander outside the door, and the ship went up in flames.

Michael’s world was all orange and red and searing heat until it all went dark.  
……………………

When he woke up, he was soaked to the bone, and the sunlight glinting off the water nearly blinded him.

He thanked God that they had taught him to swim during boot camp; if they hadn’t, he’d be dead meat.

Again.

He turned around in the water, and was met with the sight of the _Britannia_ , his ship, his crew, all of it, up in a cloud of smoke and flame.

His breathing went shallow. His mates, his fellow soldiers, his superiors, they were all on that ship. They were in the cloud of fire, their surely-dead bodies being consumed by the flames.

So why wasn’t he with them?

He had felt the lurch of the boat as the torpedo hit them. He had felt the fire washing over him, reducing him to nothing but ash. He remembered the pain vividly.

But here he was, floating in the sea, alive and unharmed, the only indication that he had just been torn apart by an explosion being the singed edges of his Navy jacket.

He would have continued his contemplation had not a pair of arms wrapped around his shoulders, followed by a series of shouts in German.

He panicked and started fighting against the other man, but he was held fast. Whipping his head around, he saw a ship towering over him. _How had he not noticed that before?_ A rope was lowered off the edge and the man holding Michael grabbed it with one hand. Up on deck, multiple crewmen pulled against the weight of Michael and the German, hoisting them onto the ship.

Michael landed on the deck with a heavy thud, clothes and hair and skin soaking wet. Before he could recover from coughing, the German who had pulled him from the sea was clapping a pair of handcuffs on Michael’s wrists, and a towering blonde in full military garb, decorated like a hero, grabbed Michael by the shirt, dragging him to his feet and glaring at him, his jaw set.

Michael Jones was a prisoner of war for a whopping two days, and was released (though not returned to America) on November 11, 1918.

He stayed in Germany for years, learning the language and surviving on crime to get himself by.

In 1927, he had raised enough money to buy himself a ticket back to the United States. He was used to ships from his time in the Navy, so, unlike many of the other passengers, he was able to avoid seasickness.

Though he wouldn’t admit it, he kissed the ground when he got back on American soil.  
…………………

He was able to avoid the draft for the Second World War (though he supposed being legally dead helped with that) in the forties, and, while all the goody-two-shoes boys were off fighting and dying in Europe, Michael found he had a love and a knack for organized crime.

His experience in crime (other than the pickpocketing he had done in Germany) started the day when he decided it was a good idea to start small and rob a liquor store. Or, at least, that was the day he _planned_ for his experience to start.

The clerk at the counter looked older than Michael, probably in his mid-thirties, with dark hair and a scruffy goatee covering his chin. The tattoos covering his arms were vivid and intricate and glaring out from underneath the rolled-up sleeves of his wrinkled dress shirt. His blue eyes were old but mischievous, and he gave off an air of confidence.

“Hey there, kid,” he grinned at Michael from above his newspaper. “What can I do you for?”

“Just this,” he said, setting a bottle of whiskey down on the counter, pulling out his wallet with one hand, the other underneath the counter, resting on the pistol in his pocket. He was about to pull out the gun when he noticed the tag pinned to the clerk’s shirt. “The hell kind of a name is _Goeff_?”

The clerk furrowed his dark eyebrows and glanced down. “It’s Geoff,” he explained exasperatedly, whipping his head around to the open door to the stock room. “ _Geoff_ , you hear me, Griffon? Stop putting _Goeff_ on my nametags!”

A woman’s voice laughed from inside the stock room, and while the clerk was distracted, Michael sighed and grabbed the bottle of whiskey.

Maybe he’d save violent crime for tomorrow.

He was running out the door when the clerk yelled out to him, “Hey, kid, wait!”

Something in his gut made Michael stop. His brain was screaming at him, _run, run while you can, he’s probably got a shotgun, just run you fucking idiot_ , but he stopped anyways.

“What?” he asked, turning to face the clerk.

There was something in the older man’s eyes, something that Michael couldn’t quite name. The clerk waited to say anything, and Michael was about to leave when he spoke up. “You got a name, kid?”

Michael furrowed his eyebrows in mocking but complied. “Michael.”

The clerk smiled, his blue eyes sad. “You be careful out there, Michael. Not everybody you rob is gonna be so nice.” Though it was phrased like a threat, it didn’t sound like one, and the older man winked at Michael like they were old friends.

“Thanks,” Michael murmured, offering up a smile of his own, “ _Goeff_.” And he walked out.  
……………………………

In the fifties, Michael got a girlfriend.

He had decided in the twenties, when he discovered he didn’t age, that relationships wouldn’t be a possibility, but there was something about this girl that made him forget all his logic.

She was beautiful and fiery and criminal, and he caught himself staring at her more than was probably necessary or acceptable.

They had met on a job and hit it off right away, the demolitions expert and the arsonist, and on their one-year anniversary of dating, she gave him a leather jacket with a wolf on the back, and he wore it during every job after that.

He loved her, but he knew it couldn’t last, he couldn’t die or age and he couldn’t stand having to see her do either without him, and when their apartment caught on fire and a steel beam fell on his legs, he took his chance.

She wouldn’t leave him, no matter how much he pleaded with her, and only when their neighbors came to drag her away did she finally escape the building, but not before he made one final declaration.

“Lindsay,” he called after her retreating form.

Their neighbors continued to pull her away, but she managed to turn her head to face him, the fire glinting off her scarlet hair. “Michael?”

“I love you,” he confirmed, smiling after her, and she cried and kicked and struggled, but they got her to safety anyways.  
………………………

By the early 2000’s, he had moved to San Andreas, California and become a well-known mercenary and demolitions expert.

Mogar, they called him.

He wasn’t entirely sure where the hell _Mogar_ came from, but it sounded dangerous and he liked it, so he didn’t complain.

But his life really began when he had been hired to do some demolitions work for a crew over in Los Santos, and they insisted on face-to-face meetings.

He didn’t even know the name of the crew, but the person who had called him, a lady named Jacqueline, had promised good money. And he could use good money right about now.

The location Jacqueline had given him was a posh little one-story white-picket-fence house in the Los Santos suburbs.

The tan door shot open right as he was lifting his fist to knock, and he was greeted with two blue eyes glaring at him out of a black skull mask.

The Vagabond.

She’d hired The Vagabond.

“Michael Jones,” he announced. “Is Jacqueline here?”

“Back porch,” echoed a deep voice, muffled by the mask, as the mad mercenary stepped aside.

Michael made his way through the nearly-bare living room and slid open the back glass door, stepping into the screened-in porch.

“I take it you’re Jacqueline?” He addressed the redhead, who was sporting a glaringly obnoxious hawaiian-print shirt.

“Jack,” she corrected. “And you must be Michael.”

“In the flesh.”

She stared at him for a long second. “You seem nervous.”

“I just wasn’t expecting you to have the kind of money to hire The Vagabond. Heard he’s expensive. And volatile.”

“Oh,” she laughed. “Sorry about him. He likes to creep out the help. Do you have the stuff?”

“Trunk of my car. Triggers are color-coded, so you know which bombs they go to.”

“Organized. I like that.”

“I’ve just had one too many bad experiences with unmarked triggers.” Though he’d never admit it, a good number of his many deaths had come from accidentally setting off bombs while building them.

She smiled knowingly. “Well. Let’s go check, shall we?”

They both trudged out of the house and towards his shitty and rusting red Sedan. When he popped the trunk, she examined the explosives inside and grinned.

“Good,” she said, reaching into her back pocket for a crumpled envelope, which she handed to him.

He noticed the lump where the wad of bills must me, and stuck it in the inside pocket of his trademark leather jacket. With a grin, he stuck out his hand. “It was nice working with you, Jack. Let me know if you guys need my help again in the future.”

“Oh, we will,” she reassured, as she pulled a gun from the waistband of her jeans. “We most certainly will.”

And she pulled the trigger.  
……………………

He woke up outside a house a few blocks away, seething with fury.

Of _course_ he was stupid enough to pick up a job for a gang. Of _course_ she’d shot him. How hadn’t he seen that coming?

Panic swept through him as he searched his coat for the envelope. He needed that money; if they’d taken it--

They hadn’t.

He ripped open the envelope to find a rolled-up stack of $100s.

And a letter.

It was written in dark green cursive and was on proper letter-writing stationery, the kind only pompous, overstuffed rich asshats used.

 _Dear Michael_ , it said.

 _If you’re dead, please feel free to disregard this letter, as it won’t be of importance._ He huffed. Nice to know the writer was a smartass.

_If, however, my hunch was correct, and you are, in fact, alive, I have a proposal for you._

_My name is Jack Pattillo, of the Fake AH Crew. I’m sorry about shooting you, but Ramsey **insists** on screening potential members before even thinking about admittance. See, Michael, there’s a reason we hold so much power here in Los Santos. We’re like you. We can’t be killed. At least not permanently. I myself first died back in 1431. Didn’t meet anyone else like me until the American Civil War. So trust me when I say that I know how alone you feel. You don’t want to get close to anyone because you don’t want to lose them, and you know you’ll always lose them. We can give you a chance to get away from that, Michael. If you’re interested, Geoff is waiting at 1215 McKinley for you. Your car is right where you left it._

Michael let out the impossibly long breath he had been holding.

He didn’t give it a second thought. He bolted back to his car and slammed his foot on the gas pedal, his mind racing at easily 300 miles an hour.

His heart was pounding hard enough that he could practically hear it when he knocked on the door. As his knuckles hit the wood, the door swung open.

 _What kind of gang leader leaves their front door open?_ He wondered, until the obvious answer hit him. _The kind who can’t be killed, idiot._

“Hello?” He called into the empty warmth of the shabby house, the lights flickering and buzzing with age.

“In the kitchen,” echoed a voice from inside. “Make yourself at home.”

Michael entered and walked past the stairwell into the living room, where sat a cracked pleather armchair and a stained, dingy, corduroy couch. “I hope this is like a backup safehouse,” he called to the other voice, plopping himself down on the couch, “because this is way more shitty than I expected from the Fakes.”

The other guy let out a cackle, a warm, obnoxious, genuine laugh that filled the whole room. “Touché. Hey, you like quiche?”

“What?”

“Quiche, man. It’s like an egg pie with vegetables and meat and shit--”

“I know what it is, why’d you bring it up?”

“Well I made some.”

So _that_ was what the smell was.

“Thought you might be hungry, and I’m fuckin’ great at quiche.”

“Oh. Thanks, I guess?”

“You want some?”

“Yeah, why not.”

The other figure stepped into the living room, two plates in hand, each holding a steaming piece of quiche, and Michael realized he recognized the older man.

He wore an old tuxedo, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows in order to show off his impressive collection of tattoos. His blue eyes were old but gleaming with pride and adventure, and his chin was covered with stubble, a perfectly curled supervillain mustache seated precariously above his upper lip.

Michael only managed to get one disbelieving word out.

“ _Goeff_?”

Geoff Ramsey laughed again as he set down the quiche and clapped Michael on the shoulder. “Holy shit, dude. Long time, no see,” he grinned.

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“You know what?” Geoff decided, flopping into the armchair and picking up a plate of quiche. “I’ve seen your work from Jack. Fuck the interview. You’re hired.”  
…………………………………

Michael’s mind was still reeling as he and Geoff drove to the penthouse that was apparently the Fakes’ headquarters.

It was almost too much to take in.

A few hours ago, he was a loner. A mercenary. A demolitions expert who sold his skills to the highest bidder.

He didn’t need anyone.

He just needed the money to get him to the next meal.

And sure, he was well-known around the Los Santos/San Andreas area. He was _Mogar_ , for fuck’s sake, and that was a name people didn’t just casually mention around here.

But whatever fame he had was _easily_ eclipsed by the infamy of the Fake AH Crew.

He wondered how many outside of the crew knew of the Fakes’ immortality.

For safety’s sake, he knew they didn’t broadcast that little detail, but still. Surely someone had killed one of them and found the Fakes out, right?

He was jerked out of his thoughts by Geoff slapping him upside the head.

“Michael.”

“Ow,” he complained, rubbing his palm against the back of his head. “The hell was that for?”

“We’re here, genius. Get out of the car.”

Michael grumbled but slid out of his seat nonetheless.

“Alright, young Padawan,” Geoff grinned at him. “Let’s do this shit.”

The older man entered the lobby of the apartment building, Michael trailing behind, and took the elevator up to the top floor.

“Penthouse,” Michael whistled. “Impressive.”

“Give me a second,” Geoff said, exiting the elevator and approaching the jet-black door of the apartment, “I’m gonna announce you real quick.” 

And he went inside the apartment, leaving Michael alone in the quiet of the small hallway between the apartment and the elevator.

After no more than two or three minutes, Geoff ushered Michael in. There were five others besides Geoff and Jack, two of whom were Jack Pattillo and the still-masked Vagabond.

“Everybody, this is Michael Jones. Michael, this is everybody.”

But Michael wasn’t looking at everybody.

His eyes were locked on a redheaded girl, leaning against the couch, with an incredulous expression plastered on her face.

He felt like he couldn’t breathe. He felt like he didn’t want to.

But somehow, though his breath hitched in his throat, he managed out one word.

One tiny little word, barely more than a whisper.

“Lindsay?”


End file.
